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It’s Been a Week

May 26, 2026 by mountainmornings

It’s been exactly one week since the Love Bug graduated eighth grade. All the girls wore white dresses and were handed one white rose. And I consider myself lucky to have been there, to witness her with her friends. Because she is September’s child, she is one of the youngest of her posse; still wearing Converse sneakers and socks. They laugh wholeheartedly, and cry as if the world just ended. Some of the students will be moving on to a different high school, but they promise to still call. Or do nearly 14 year olds make phone calls? More likely some text chains will continue, and some will change.

The forecast called for rain, and so the graduation ceremony was held inside.

The Pumpkin’s band, “Snakebite,” was the opening salvo of the evening. His guitar riffs were tight, and the bassist was quite a performer. Cell phone lights were waving in the air and they got a standing ovation in Music City no less. Four 5th Graders, younger brothers, ruling the roost, until the curtain closes and a gigantic screen descends for a video trip down memory lane. Parents and grandparents were tearing up. The Love Bug dancing at age 4, her friend as a baby covered in birthday cake. Then we see clips from present day, with the Bug spiking a volleyball at the net. She is a smart, talented, exceptional human – a wonderful friend, a loving grandchild.

Today the rain continues, with flooding likely and a chance of thunderstorms.

I am glad the Bride and Groom have stood their ground about cell phones. The Bug can text with her friends from her watch, but she has been gifted her middle school years in real life (IRL). I suspect once high school starts, she will have a phone. But I am also pretty sure she will be a responsible user; she’s seen the downsides already – all night texting for example. I asked the Pumpkin what percentage of kids in his grade have phones? “About 20%,” he said, which seems reasonable, better than I thought. After all, this week it seems our President had been leading us through his social media posts – even skipping his son’s wedding in the Bahamas to stay at the White House. Heather Cox Richardson wrote this:

“Trump’s social media account over the weekend was active. He twice posted an image of himself leering over Greenland with the caption “Hello, Greenland!” and repeated suggestions that “China Loves Trump.” He posted an AI image of Representative Ro Khanna (D-CA) as a devil (I think), calling him a “SLEAZEBAG” and a “Dumocrat,” and an image of eight lawmakers or officials in orange jumpsuits (except for Obama’s tan one), claiming they had “Caused tremendous damage through Weaponization!” And he posted a number of images of colorful fountains.”

Scattered showers are still possible, flood advisory will lift in one hour.

The problem is, our flood advisory never lifts. Mr T is always flooding the zone, one minute saying the negotiations are going well in our adventure in Iran, and the next bombing them. Despite its blatant illegality! We have a government that bends the knee to this orange would-be king who rules via late night and early morning social media rants. Maybe we need our legislators to pass a law setting an age limit for elders with dementia? No social media accounts over 70 if you use AI to make yourself look like Jesus.

I am drowning in his fantasy world, trying to create a slush fund for his cronies. I wonder if the GOP will grow a spine, finally. And now excuse me while I find my umbrella and tell the painters to move their trucks because the new dumpster has arrived. Just in time.

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Taking Kay to Costco

May 19, 2026 by mountainmornings

Consumerism.

Costco is the size of a few football fields. Never was there ever a store in history where you had to pay to play. You must be a member to enter the cavernous walls of pallets filled with anything and everything your heart desires. Outdoor furniture, steaks, refrigerators, paper towels, hearing aides – you name it they’ve got it. They even have books and toys! Or you could fill up your tank and get your tires changed. It was all a bit overwhelming, but Kay had never heard of it and she was there for the fashion only.

We’d always joke about Bob getting almost all his clothes at Costco. But it wasn’t until my newly-transplanted sister noticed an outfit I’d thrown on that sparked her interest in the store; it was a light, gauzy green, cotton shirt that happened to match a pair of Eileen Fisher pants. Every now and then I pick up something pretty, along with the huge cartons of Starbucks coffee. And I’m always interested in that special cotton you can wash and hang to dry – the wrinkly fabric is part of the charm. In this 90 degree heat, it’s essential.

I told Kay the same shirt may not be there, but it was worth the sociological field trip to give it a try. Kay has been used to the same Upper East Side neighborhood for decades. The stores are pint-sized and specialized. I remember the first time I saw a pair of lilac, leather baby shoes from France in the window of a children’s store around the corner from her 96th Street apartment. I was strolling down Madison Avenue when the Bride was little and I’d only known white Stride Rite shoes for new walkers. I’d get out the white polish every time we’d travel. It was almost rebellious to think a baby might wear a soft shoe. Now I’m introducing Kay to something new. In the past she might have shopped at Macy’s or Bergdoff’s or Bloomingdale’s. And it’s not as if she’d never been to a shopping mall. When visiting the Flapper in MN she had a plethora of huge malls to visit with our brother Dr Jim.

But I warned her about Costco. “It’s for people who own restaurants, or sororities,” trying to prepare her for the experience.

She didn’t want a scooter, her fancy walker would do just fine. Although she said she’s an excellent driver, the Ada incident in Target was still weighing heavily on my mind. Kay would not be distracted from the mission. We headed straight for the tables piled high with clothing I hoped children weren’t making in sweatshops in Asia. And lo and behold, there were still some shirts left like mine and she picked out a navy blue, and then found more summer clothes for her new life in Nashville. She’d let go of her walker and hold something up to assess the size while wondering why they didn’t have fitting rooms. She could not believe the prices… I could feel it was hard letting go of her old life, but she was willing to adapt.

I stood there remembering, walking up Beacon Hill as a young college student in Boston to Filene’s Basement, an institution where clothes were marked down according to how long they were on the floor. Beautiful designer finds were strewn across tables and piled in bins. Women of all ages and socio-economic classes would try things on in the aisles, either having a friend shield them by holding up a coat or just wiggling things underneath their arms and legs. Coming from a small town in NJ, I was shocked and simultaneously exhilarated and enchanted.

When we returned to her apartment, someone asked Kay how she liked Costco; “I loved it,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. Next up, a huge art supply store in East! OH, and the morning before the Costco trip, last Friday I played “Mahjongg in the Mansion,” a fundraiser for Cheekwood Arboretum and Museum – and I won a travel tile set in the raffle!

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Teatime

May 12, 2026 by mountainmornings

Hoping everyone had a pleasant Mother’s Day weekend.

The Bride surprised me yesterday with High Tea at Thistle Farms. We had scones and petite sandwiches, tiny quiches and tarts and of course, Tea – Lavender Earl Grey. Since we had both experienced afternoon tea in Canada on recent trips, we felt like true aficionados! It’s rare that I get to spend time alone with my delightful daughter; her life is busy with work and the Grands’ sports activities. I cherish the time we get to walk along the Greenway with her dog Maple, just the two of us, without husbands and friends, and chat like old biddies.

On Sunday I cooked a fairly simple meal and the Bride baked her special sourdough bread. Bob picked up my sister Kay, looking regal for the occasion. The Pumpkin showed her his sketchbook of imaginary creatures and robots, and she praised his incredible imagination. We capped off Mother’s Day dinner with my famous, three-layer-deluxe-carrot-cake and let the Love Bug spread the toasted coconut cream cheese frosting, which is her favorite activity, next to volleyball.

Unfortunately, we tucked into everything so fast I forgot to take a picture! Maybe that’s a good thing?

Remember when we called ourselves the “Sandwich Generation?” We lived in Rumson, NJ juggling young children and trying to help Grandma Ada and Grandpa Hudson while they were still living in the same big, empty, Dover, NJ house an hour away from us. The marriage and family therapist and the woodcarver. We felt like we were stuck in the middle; endlessly playing catch-up with parenting or taking care of elderly parents. Don’t get me wrong, it could be fun but exhausting nonetheless. It’s a familiar refrain. Only, we’re all living longer; sometimes if we’re lucky, into our 90s. And hips break, and memory fades.

So now we’re living in the Club Sandwich Generation! I didn’t patent the phrase but maybe I will. We have new Grandbabies out in California, and we’ve relocated Kay a mile away while her elevator is being replaced in Carnegie Hill. The Twins are learning to walk, I’m learning Mahjongg, the Bride has started her own practice, Bluebird, MD. and Kay is studying T’ai Chi! When I used the Club Sandwich analogy, the Bride asked if we were the pickles!!

And BTW, the Bride was interviewed on a podcast for Mother’s Day about being a physician mom! She talked about pumping in the bathroom after the Bug was born, and now the ER has a lactation room for new mom nurses and doctors. I remember watching Downton Abbey while she was home nursing and doing her patient notes at the same time. Everything stopped at 5 PM at Highclere Castle for Tea! She was lucky to get a peanut butter cracker during an ER shift.

Aging is inevitable. I understand why the Flapper studied Buddhism in her later years. We continue to suffer when we expect everything to stay the same, when we cling to our possessions, when we constantly buy into algorithms that suggest the next best thing will bring us happiness, when we can’t stop comparing ourselves to others. If we become fixated on staying young, we are bound to be defeated by surgery and toxins that will turn us into unrecognizable versions of ourselves. I loved this essay today on Substack by “The Doctor Unbound:”

“’Your suffering does not come only from pain, loss, illness, conflict, or uncertainty. Much of it comes from your demand that life stop producing these things. You are fighting the nature of existence itself.’” Then he explained that peace does not emerge from constructing a perfect life free of difficulty. It emerges from changing one’s relationship to craving, control, fear, and impermanence.“

It’s nice to set aside a day to celebrate our mothers. I think about my Mother every day, how she had to give me up and how lucky I was to land in Victory Gardens with Nell and Jim. I prefer to celebrate International Women’s Day, because just giving birth doesn’t make you a good mother. And not every woman wants to deliver a child into this world. And some people are estranged from their biological mothers. And some women just cannot conceive, no matter the cost or trials of IVF. Mothering in this country is not as easy as it might be in say Scandinavian countries, in fact, it can be quite pickling. We have an incoherent president who calls himself the father of IVF!

On a brighter note, we had a new visitor to our bird feeder this week – the Rose Breasted Grosbeak!

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Meds by Mail

May 5, 2026 by mountainmornings

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds

Isn’t it interesting that I can get on an internet site, fill in a questionnaire, and get drugs delivered to my door in a matter of hours? I can get weight loss injectable GLP-1 syringes, I can get gummies that promise to grow my hair, and if I were a man, well you know about what that little blue pill will do… Have you seen the Amazon ad? The one where a guy falls down and hurts his back, while lying on the floor he dials up a ‘provider’ on his cell who ships his drugs straight away to his door! That sounds like pain meds right? Narcotics-Are-Us.

America is a wonderland of instant gratification.

Except when it comes to women. Once SCOTUS decided to eliminate a woman’s right to control her own body in 2022, our nationwide right to abortion fell to the discretion of the states. We all know what happened in RED states; clinics closed and poor women seeking reproductive healthcare had to travel to bordering states. Because let me say it again, wealthy women will always and forever be able to afford healthcare. They will fly to Switzerland for their depression. They will fly to South Korea for a facelift – have you seen the latest black comedy BEEF on Netflix?

Well did you know that about a third of abortions in this country are performed by the patient simply taking a pill in a timely fashion? It’s simple and easy, no clinic visit, no procedure, no dilation and curettage. No cramping, bleeding, or fear of sepsis in a back alley. But those old white men in RED states still didn’t want women to have access to this wonder drug mifepristone! And they certainly didn’t want doctors, or providers, to prescribe mifepristone by telemedicine from another state to women in their state!

But yesterday, some semblance of intelligence emerged from the Court; ALL women for a brief period of time will be able to obtain mifepristone BY MAIL! Imagine that.

“In a brief order, Justice Samuel A. Alito Jr. paused a lower-court ruling from Friday that had prevented abortion providers from prescribing the pills by telemedicine and shipping them to patients, causing confusion for providers and patients. The one-sentence order imposes a pause until at least May 11. He requested that the parties file briefs by Thursday, and then the full court will determine how to proceed.” https://www.nytimes.com/2026/05/04/us/politics/supreme-court-abortion-pill.html?unlocked_article_code=1.gFA.iAGK.L0ZU7ZryabYn&smid=url-share

I would advise all the moms out there with pre-teen daughters to get online NOW and order their supply! This administrative stay might only last a week after all. I mean don’t we pack condoms into our sons’ luggage when they move away to college? Didn’t we get our children vaccinated against HPV?

Meanwhile, I read a headline this morning about RFK, Jr trying to wean Americans off antidepressants. Seems counterintuitive doesn’t it? Maybe enough women will show up at the polls to slow our descent into this gloomy, Christian nationalist night. Meanwhile, we’re moving my sister into a new southern sensibility, slowly.

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Gunshots, Garages and Gardens

April 28, 2026 by mountainmornings

Our garage renovation, aka the casita, has come to a standstill.

It was thoroughly expected. Only on HGTV can a whole house be built in 100 days. I’ve learned there are two phases of city inspections – the ‘rough-in’ is first, where electrical lines are placed and plumbing is dug. Our backyard is a minefield of trenches, just filling the bird feeder can be dangerous. The second inspection happens at the end, when the walls are up and the toilet flushes. And since the inspector couldn’t even find our casita hidden behind a huge dumpster on the first go-round, we are sitting in a state of perpetual construction limbo.

While gulping my first cup of morning coffee, I decided to read about the King’s visit to the White House of our Would-be-King. And I was delighted to see the first stop on the Lawn tour was to the apiary! I didn’t know that Melania had decided to keep Michelle Obama’s colony of bees. And their hive isn’t just a bunch of boxes; no, it’s an exact duplicate of the White House! Paving over the Rose Garden and demolishing the entire East Wing in order to build a $400 million, 90,000-square-foot ballroom must have exceeded their renovation budget. 

It didn’t surprise me at all that Mr T’s first response, after surviving his third assassination attempt, was to reiterate his need for the Great Gatsbyesque ballroom. It’s a question of security, he wants us to believe, and not an homage to his own ego. Some Republicans are buying his story as they watched the three most powerful politicians on the Hill being escorted from the stage this weekend at the White House Correspondents Dinner – the President, the VP and the Speaker. It must have dawned on some of them how ridiculous it was to have the starting lineup of succession to the presidency all in one room.

In fact, the GOP would like the National Trust for Historic Preservation to drop its lawsuit against Mr T’s no-bid building project. Their response: “What Saturday’s awful event does not change is that the Constitution and multiple federal statutes require Congress to authorize construction of a ballroom on White House grounds, and that Congress has not done so…”

Now I’m not comparing our little Nashville casita to a White House ballroom, but we got three bids! Actually first, we had a bunch of contractors tell us our job was just too small for them. Anything under $200,000 wasn’t worth their time. Imagine that. Bob and I have survived many a building project together after almost fifty years of marriage. Did I just calculate that right? FIFTY?!!! Our very first renovation project was after leaving the Berkshires, to return to NJ. The Rocker was just two years old when we migrated back to the East Coast and installed a steel beam to open up the kitchen to the family room. When Bob hung the wallpaper upside down in one corner. Where our Welsh Corgi’s puppies were born in the new family room.

But I can’t forget about the bees! The Rocker was born at the edge of a Wildlife Sanctuary in an old farmhouse. Before we moved into East New Lenox Road, we had to have a beekeeper relocate a hive of honeybees from our fireplace.

Now we can look back and laugh at our marital renovation journey – from bees to building a house in a forest, to a casita. And as much as I enjoy a good laugh, I wasn’t even going to watch the WHCD this year, I only switched it on for a few minutes before going to bed. How could a president with absolutely NO sense of humor be roasted? What kind of nonsense was this? Didn’t this very event, a celebration of free speech, trigger Mr T into running for president in the first place?

And I watched him sitting there, oblivious as others startled to the sound of gunfire. Did he have his hearing aids in? And could he have been stunned into self-reflection while longing for his ballroom? Nope. Our President went right back into his malicious tirade against the free press while being interviewed by Norah O’Donnell. Notice how this female cardinal could care less about our casita.

Screenshot

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Medical Migration

April 21, 2026 by mountainmornings

It all started when our Great Aunt Mary had heart surgery. We were away on vacation when my MIL’s sister had her heart valve replaced by a pig valve at a hospital on Long Island. Her son was an orthopedic surgeon at the same hospital because MD is a gene that runs in our family. What could go wrong? Mary was in her early 80s, and this procedure was supposed to prevent minor complications in the future, but instead a blood clot traveled up to her brain and she had a major stroke.

Ada would drive into New York to visit her older sister almost every day. Mary was pretty spectacular as older sisters go – a talented musician, she taught me the Yiddish lullaby I sang every night to my babies and the Rocker is singing to his babies. It’s a magical tune about raisins and goats and to this day can make the L’il Pumpkin close his eyes and enter a dream state! When we returned from our trip, we visited Great Aunt Mary and noticed a flock of small bluebirds had appeared at her bedside.

It was the start of a collection. Ada had been delivering tiny, glass and porcelain bluebirds to Mary as a reminder that all will be well and her happiness would return, just like the migrating bluebirds.

So it was inevitable that when the Bride decided to pivot, and leave hospital-based Emergency Medicine, with its brutal schedule, administrative horsehockey, and clinical intensity, she would call her new venture, “Bluebird, MD.” I saw the change happening during the pandemic; the showers before hugging her children, the slowing down, the constant battle in a red state to enforce health guidelines for Covid. She wanted something better, for herself and her family. She and her husband were on the front lines of a war at that time, in the ER and the ICU. And You. Know. Who. was our Commander in Chief.

Many people migrate at midlife. We moved from watching herons fly over the Shrewsbury River on the Jersey Shore, to watching Pileated Woodpeckers demolish trees in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Midlife is a time to reflect and consider alternatives – a sort of existential right of passage. To quote an existential therapist: “… you have a responsibility to show up to your life. You can’t avoid it, in all its pain and beauty, by living in the past—personal histories and buried traumas matter, and they might inform the present, but it won’t do to dwell on them.”

And for some of us, we wake up and wonder if we’re really where we want to be – are we happy?

When Bob retired from his ER practice, I knew my happy place was near our grandchildren, and so we moved again. Flying further south, to Nashville. I wanted to be present for all the skinned knees – for the roses and the thorns. Just this past weekend, I sat on a bleacher in a huge gym in Franklin, TN with the Bride as we cheered on the Bug’s volleyball team. Did I almost get hit in the head with a ball? Yes. Was I happy? You betcha!

I’m proud of my daughter for cutting ties with the hospital and opening her own practice this year. Bluebird, MD is a mobile Urgent Care practice. You can actually call and speak with a person… a doctor! You can schedule a same day appointment or have a remote visit. It’s not concierge medicine, there’s no fee to join, it’s a direct care practice. They don’t take insurance, there are “… no barriers or delays of the traditional insurance-based system.” She’s come full circle; her Grandfather also made house calls. https://www.bluebird-md.com/

Yesterday I delivered one of Ada’s glass bluebirds to my older sister Kay. She’s working on a watercolor of peonies, and when she held the small bird in her hand exclaimed, “Oh, I can paint him!” This bluebird pic was captured at Radnor Lake.

https://www.instagram.com/bluebirdmdnashville?igsh=MnI2Z2Zkb254N3Ns

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An Alpine Divorce

April 14, 2026 by mountainmornings

The first morning my sister Kay arrived here we took a hike. Well, it was more like a walk a few blocks up the road but I took out my hiking sticks and she pushed her walker to the Farmers Market. It was a lovely Spring day and we were on a mission to get to the cheesecake tent before the opening bell rings because they usually sell out. I had to explain that we don’t get to order any special flavor, like her favorites pineapple and blueberry; we’re not in New York anymore. We get to choose from some local specialties, like “nutty buddy” or “lemon curd.” Luckily, they had blueberry crumb.

Somewhere between my first adventure in osteoporosis management and this last pre-election fall – almost foreshadowing our democratic demise – my daughter helped me buy a pair of hiking sticks. At first I didn’t use them. It was awkward and I thought my arms didn’t want or need the workout. But after visiting California a few times, where hiking is the state sport, I picked them up and tried again. Now, I reach for them regularly whenever we take to the Greenway for a walk with Maple the rescue dog. Maple was dubious at first, after all she knew me as ‘two-legged-with-treats.’ But my sticks don’t bother her at all now.

What did bother me this morning was reading an article about Alpine Divorce, better known in the Swiss Alps where a couple might get into an argument while hiking. Titled “If He Leaves You on a Mountain, End Your Relationship,” I can’t imagine finding the breath to talk, let alone argue, while hiking up a mountain, but lately women have been telling their stories of being left alone on a treacherous trail by their partner. https://www.nytimes.com/2026/04/12/style/alpine-divorce-relationships-hike.html?unlocked_article_code=1.a1A.JKb1.sMTGm5ckmxKd&smid=url-share

I’m hoping Melania read this article. Her little PR stunt, claiming not to be a ‘victim’ of Jeffrey Epstein, only made matters worse. We know Paolo Zampolli introduced her to Trump while he was married to Marla. We know the two men were fixtures in the NYC social scene of the 90s. It’s alleged Zampolli asked ICE to deport his girlfriend, even though he denies it. Oh and btw, he first met this Brazilian model after she flew into NY on Epstein’s plane at the age of 17. He has said about Mr T in the past: “We both like beautiful things.” The dots are easy to connect. https://www.nytimes.com/2026/03/20/us/paolo-zampolli-ice-melania-trump-epstein.html?unlocked_article_code=1.a1A.b8cs.k7LxclPTHjNv&smid=url-share

I suspect Melania knows her husband has lost his base along with his mind. I suspect she plans on leaving him before he gets the chance to leave her alone on a mountaintop.

Domestic violence takes many forms and has no borders. If you’re in a certain Epstein Class, you don’t have to abandon your partner or beat her with a brick when she no longer serves your purpose. I thought about the recent trial in Hawaii. An anesthesiologist beats his wife with a rock while hiking the Pali Puka Trail on Oahu. He was just found guilty of attempted manslaughter. Luckily she survived, and testified to feeling strange as the trail narrowed, then he shoved her. And she too refused to be a victim, she fought back.

I’d like to propose we as a nation take out our hiking sticks and get to the polls this year. Look at what Hungary just did! Eighty percent turnout to save their democracy from an autocrat. Mr T has been attacking Pope Leo, and he even posted an AI generated picture of himself as Jesus healing the sick. Did he think this would go over well with his Christian Nationalists? Is anybody paying attention to his demented tweets in the White House?

On our country’s 250th birthday, I’d like to propose we turn the tables on our commander in chief. Put lots of candles on a cheesecake and grant him an Alpine divorce. This is Kay and Bob after our score!

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On the Brink

April 8, 2026 by mountainmornings

This morning I said to Bob, “At least we didn’t annihilate a civilization.” His response; “We are annihilating our own.”

And in some ways it’s true. After 250 years, our democracy is fading rapidly. Republican senators cannot find the courage to confront our Commander in Chief. Generals have been purged and we’re left with leaders in Congress and the military without a backbone or a soul. A Turkish proverb says: “When a clown takes over the palace, he does not become king, it’s the palace that becomes a circus.”

But yesterday I was busy with my sister Kay. Her elevator is being replaced on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and so she’s flown South to discover the joys of a Nashville Spring. Since our DADU is mid-construction, she moved into an independent senior living apartment only a mile up the road. She will have two restaurants and a cafe in the building, along with a plethora of activities to attend if she sees fit! There are art classes, which she could teach, and armchair pickleball, or even Mahjongg.

As one might with any nonagenarian, we got around to discussing legacy. Kay and I watched Jane Fonda on Substack talking about wanting her children to be proud of her, and about doing the things in life we are afraid of because at the end, we’ll regret the things we didn’t do… and Kay said, “I was never afraid of anything.”

It wasn’t really surprising, because after all my sister was a stewardess in the 50s and 60s, when women had to be weighed and measured. She has defied the odds of our Year of Living Dangerously; she lost our Father at the age of 14 and promptly fell into a coma like a Disney princess after the automobile accident that nearly killed our Mother and sent me on my own trajectory from PA to NJ. She’s had her share of suitors, two husbands and a distinguished career in medical illustration and sonography. And she raised her daughter, alone, with a little help from Camp St Joseph in the summers.

I asked Kay once, ‘Where is your happy place?’ She looked into the near distance and remembered visiting camp with the Flapper on weekends, “…my daughter would run down cabin lane and jump in my arms.” This from a woman who’s traveled around the world a few times!

I’m sorry this will have to be short today, we are still busy hanging pictures, unpacking suitcases and getting Kay oriented. It’s not like New York, it’s slower and calmer and warmer and dreamier here in the South. But at least our country didn’t bomb another country into oblivion. If I’d had time to think about it, I would have been very afraid.

Here is a picture of my beautiful sister Kay in her NY apartment in front of an oil painting she did in one day at the Art Student’s League.

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Matzoh Meetzah

March 31, 2026 by mountainmornings

It’s Passover time again. Once we were slaves in Egypt, and once my ancestors were indentured servants to the British Empire. Now my Grands love watching the Great British Baking Show, while Jewish women and maybe some men everywhere sweep all the bread crumbs out of their kitchens while making matzoh ball soup.

Coming on the heels of #NoKings, this holiday feels heady. Handmaidens dripping in red led the march in Nashville holding the names of every single man in the Epstein files. Bill Clinton and Donald Trump were first in line.

Today I will chop up butternut squash to make my famous casserole. I realize that most of the people who loved this particular dish will not be here. I had to send all the leftovers home with Aunt Sue over the many years of Grandma Ada’s seders. Eventually newer, more modern recipes will take its place. We don’t keep carp in our bathtubs anymore to make gefilte fish. But matzoh ball soup has stood the test of time. Like a birthright.

On Wednesday, erev Passover, SCOTUS’ “… nine justices will hear arguments over whether to allow the Trump administration to end that promise of birthright citizenship. The landmark case will test whether the Constitution guarantees citizenship to all babies born on U.S. soil, including the children of undocumented immigrants. It could potentially redefine what it means to be an American for generations to come.” https://www.nytimes.com/2026/03/31/us/politics/supreme-court-birthright-family-histories.html?unlocked_article_code=1.XVA.1MWs.26nTC7VU3rcO&smid=url-share

I just read that Chief Justice Roberts’ Great Great Grandfather Albert Podrasky, was born in PA coal country to parents who arrived here from Slovakia. He was born before his parents were naturalized, and yet tradition had it that the baby was born on American soil and was therefore a citizen. It was not just tradition, it was the Law of the Land! It seemed sacrosanct. I wonder when, IF, my foster mother Nell’s parents were naturalized after immigrating from Czechoslovakia to Scranton, PA? 

Or what about my Great Great Grandfather who arrived here, in the same coal country as Roberts’ ancestors, from Ireland in 1854? Was he a citizen when my Grandfather was born six years later? This administration may try to rewind time, to ban books, to erase history, and yet we were all immigrants – we are a country of immigrants. And immigrants belong here.

I’m willing to bet if we all dug a little deeper, many of us would find a tiny blip, like our Chief Justice. I cannot imagine birthright citizenship would be overturned, and yet I couldn’t imagine that Mr T would win a second term. I couldn’t imagine that Roe would be challenged. I take nothing for granted these days.

When we pray on Wednesday night, over brisket and matzoh, I will ask God (if you’re listening) to stop this war that was started on a whim. To help ALL our citizens get out and vote in November, because I believe even the die hard MAGA supporters are beginning to question Mr T’s motives. And to forgive us for no longer making P’tcha, an Ashkenazi meat aspic dish made from jellied calf or chicken feet.

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Tulip Peonies

March 24, 2026 by mountainmornings

The peonies outside my snug are starting to bud. Our cherry tree blossoms are littering the path to the old garage currently getting a facelift. Spring has officially sprung! Along with pollinators and robins frolicking in the bird bath, bluebirds visiting our feeder, our yard is alive with the sounds of construction. This is a time for reinvention – a time before the humidity of summer dampens our best efforts.

So of course I signed up for “The Good List.” I’ll be getting a weekly newsletter from Melissa Kirsch, a NYTimes journalist, who compiles all the things worthy of our attention that might just bring us joy. In her bio I’ve read that she will remain apolitical, she writes: “My beat is broadly about how to lead a meaningful life. I’m interested in the eternal human pursuit of happiness, connection and community and the ways in which technological advancement both helps and hinders these aims.”

It sounds a lot like her beat is similar to mine, minus the technological bits of course… and the apolitical. My purpose is more connecting the dots between the personal and political. And almost every night, Bob and I like to recite at least three things that we were grateful for that day. Our pillow talk ranges from mundane to philosophical. I feel like it sets the stage for my brain to recover and dream good thoughts, to reinvent our dystopian reality. I wake wondering why Bob is hanging pictures, when it’s only a wall going up in the new/old/garage/casita.

Did you know that our brains could use a little down time during the day as well? Boredom is actually a gift I’ve tried to give my children and grandchildren. “How could you be bored?” I’d say, while explaining all the wonderful things they could be doing like reading, or just taking a walk and noticing plants along the way, or not. I remember the surprise of the Bride’s little friend when I said we were going for a walk in the woods, to nowhere. She was actually shocked. But it’s a scientific fact, we need to stop our monkey mind every now and again to recharge – it’s called the “default mode.”

“The default mode network is a bunch of structures in your brain that switch on when you don’t have anything else to think about. So, you forgot your phone and you’re sitting at a light, for example. That’s when your default mode network goes on. We don’t like it.” https://hbr.org/2025/08/you-need-to-be-bored-heres-why

I would say most people don’t like it. That’s why our phones have become small, addictive antidotes to boredom. Maybe I do write about techy things! Say you’re standing in line at Starbucks and everyone is looking down, at their phones. Or maybe you’re stuck in a TSA line at an airport, that devious device becomes a way out of the chaos. After the Groom returned home from Europe this past weekend, he was Facetiming with the Bride in Memphis. Our sporty Love Bug was playing in a volleyball tournament, and while I spoke with them I asked why the video on his phone was black and white? “It’s his phone Mom,” she said laughing.

The Groom’s default mode is black and white to make his phone less appealing! Genius.

I lose my phone ALL the time. It’s teetering on the toaster, or lost in the bed covers. Sometimes I need Bob to call me so I can find it, although my Saint of Lost Things would prefer to search for it. For a long time I was feeling like dementia was right around the corner, I’d be dialing my microwave to call someone in no time. Until the Groom told me that misplacing my phone was a good sign – it means I’M NOT ATTACHED TO IT. Phew.

I think artists in particular need to engage their default mode. Our brains need time to rest and let some creativity bubble up; if we start doom scrolling on our phones we’re likely to end up wherever that algorithm takes us. I like to say my best ideas come to me in the shower. The Bride thinks I should listen to podcasts while I walk, but then I wouldn’t meet Molly, the senior Shiba Inu who is pushed like a queen in her stroller. The Flapper once told me, “Everyone has a story,” and I don’t want to miss any of them.

After we hung up with the Love Bug, I rushed out to Trader Joes to get some tulip peonies for our returning volleyball champion. I had read on The Good List that these flowers were currently available for a very limited time. I’d never heard of tulips that look like peonies, two of my very favorites combined to trumpet in Spring. Well, Nashville’s TJs had never heard of them either, but I did find some purple tulips.

This picture is from Spring Break in Paris! The Pumpkin is almost as tall as me.

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